hello random ficage - due South (Poet AU)/Hard Core Logo in which Joe gets picked up at a bar...
Joseph Mulgrew was not having a good day. He'd already had his ass hustled by a bunch of dead-eyed local rent-a-cops and now the fucking bar - which looked like the only thing in the armpit of this mall that was dark enough to stop his eyes hurting - was playing really crap music. She had been following Joe all over Canada with her squeaky voice wearing Shirley Temple curls crossed with some pre-pubescent two piece swim suit. And right now, Joe was "walking in the sky-i-i" with a tumbler of some unpardonable whiskey and some five, six and seven o'clock shadow. Billy had liked it when Joe shaved but without Billy, who the fuck was there to care? Even the 'hawk looked like Joe had pawned the lawn mower. He gestured to the wait-staff, "Who the truck wants to listen to this garbage" - Joe was trying to use proper dictionary four-dollar words, he'd had enouh of the Keystone Kops - "Thinkin' about it, who the heck wrote this amoeba abortion record?!"
Something stirred the hairs at the back of Joe's neck, "I did."
Tall, blond and armed with a razor sharp smile and Joe had thought nothing could get worse. Now he had a signed up member of the Lighthouse Family fan club, who thought that sunshine came out of this teen popstrel's ass. Momentarily, Joe thought about investigating the phenomena with a torch and anal suppositories. In those hot pants, he might have trouble finding any kind of ass. The clone ranger was still looking at Joe with that dazzling smile but now there was something dark behind the eyes, something familiar. "So, you want to fuck with me, eh?" One of the grannies in the back of the boozer fainted into her Tia Maria, another grabbed her handbag and scarpered to the nearest crack house.
"I was waiting for you to ask." And it was like somebody pulled a switch and Joe recognised the look for the one he saw every night in some no-tell mo-tel mirror. These days, they were built into the cabinets, which left him unable to turn the fucking things around and make them stop looking at him. John had recommended using baby oil and newspaper - in one of his less medicated moments - but where the fuck was Joe expected to get fucking baby oil? And the last thing a guy making it alone except for his guitar and bad liquor needed was silky-smooth fingers. And Joe hadn't been getting anything silky-smooth else. Billy was fucking gone and he couldn't even pick up some groupies. The clue was in the name - group-ees - they don't do one man bands.
"You want a fight or something?" Joe growled half-heartedly, he was wrung out and left to dry. A joke, nearly, funny to Joe. Drying out in a room full of liquor, cigarette smoke, and easy ass. The ass smiled - like he'd ever stopped - and picked up a cowboy hat from the bar, it had been soaked by one of the regulars and Joe wondered whether the wheat would germinate if you had enough cheap beer. Hopefully, cheap bear, a Seymour Stein special could really wreck your hair. Industrial strength anti-dandruff shampoo almost worked if only because the reek of coal-tar would keep everyone far away from your personage.
So what now on the magical mystery tour? The john would be good enough, but risky in a mall which had never emerged from the antediluvian highlights of the 1960s. Plus, the john is the only place where you could deal shit without getting mall-copped on the ass and today Joe was being clean, if only because it got him more dates.
The last statement is a lie, but Joe is very good at lying when he means it, also, he is significantly less good at washing, laundry and appropriate hair mouse substitutes. Moose spit mixed with whale fat worked but was a bitch to get unless you are Canada's own Crocodile Dundee - Crocodile Mountie - and spend your life at Wherethefuckistheairport in turn three-days sled ride from Whatfuckingairport and part of two weeks Joe would rather forget. It later transpires Joe's dinner date is from Reallywhatfuckingairportfuckit and doesn't believe in mounties. Joe tries clapping his hands, but Ren's dick kept getting in the way. Dicks do that. Ask Billy fucking Tallent, Joe got in his way and now Billy is in fucking Hollywood fucking hookers and English film stars who are beginning to tarnish and need a sex scandal like Joe needs fucking.
[I think that will be all for now -- now really going AFK]
Something stirred the hairs at the back of Joe's neck, "I did."
Tall, blond and armed with a razor sharp smile and Joe had thought nothing could get worse. Now he had a signed up member of the Lighthouse Family fan club, who thought that sunshine came out of this teen popstrel's ass. Momentarily, Joe thought about investigating the phenomena with a torch and anal suppositories. In those hot pants, he might have trouble finding any kind of ass. The clone ranger was still looking at Joe with that dazzling smile but now there was something dark behind the eyes, something familiar. "So, you want to fuck with me, eh?" One of the grannies in the back of the boozer fainted into her Tia Maria, another grabbed her handbag and scarpered to the nearest crack house.
"I was waiting for you to ask." And it was like somebody pulled a switch and Joe recognised the look for the one he saw every night in some no-tell mo-tel mirror. These days, they were built into the cabinets, which left him unable to turn the fucking things around and make them stop looking at him. John had recommended using baby oil and newspaper - in one of his less medicated moments - but where the fuck was Joe expected to get fucking baby oil? And the last thing a guy making it alone except for his guitar and bad liquor needed was silky-smooth fingers. And Joe hadn't been getting anything silky-smooth else. Billy was fucking gone and he couldn't even pick up some groupies. The clue was in the name - group-ees - they don't do one man bands.
"You want a fight or something?" Joe growled half-heartedly, he was wrung out and left to dry. A joke, nearly, funny to Joe. Drying out in a room full of liquor, cigarette smoke, and easy ass. The ass smiled - like he'd ever stopped - and picked up a cowboy hat from the bar, it had been soaked by one of the regulars and Joe wondered whether the wheat would germinate if you had enough cheap beer. Hopefully, cheap bear, a Seymour Stein special could really wreck your hair. Industrial strength anti-dandruff shampoo almost worked if only because the reek of coal-tar would keep everyone far away from your personage.
So what now on the magical mystery tour? The john would be good enough, but risky in a mall which had never emerged from the antediluvian highlights of the 1960s. Plus, the john is the only place where you could deal shit without getting mall-copped on the ass and today Joe was being clean, if only because it got him more dates.
The last statement is a lie, but Joe is very good at lying when he means it, also, he is significantly less good at washing, laundry and appropriate hair mouse substitutes. Moose spit mixed with whale fat worked but was a bitch to get unless you are Canada's own Crocodile Dundee - Crocodile Mountie - and spend your life at Wherethefuckistheairport in turn three-days sled ride from Whatfuckingairport and part of two weeks Joe would rather forget. It later transpires Joe's dinner date is from Reallywhatfuckingairportfuckit and doesn't believe in mounties. Joe tries clapping his hands, but Ren's dick kept getting in the way. Dicks do that. Ask Billy fucking Tallent, Joe got in his way and now Billy is in fucking Hollywood fucking hookers and English film stars who are beginning to tarnish and need a sex scandal like Joe needs fucking.
[I think that will be all for now -- now really going AFK]